Coal Blooded
by Sarenaria
Summary: Assassins!AU. The I.O.U Agency is good, objectives noble. That is what 19-year old agent John Watson believed, trained as a killer from a young age. That is, of course, until Sherlock Holmes turned on the agency, joining the terrorist group, "AA". John was told to just forget about him, his best and only friend. And he did. Until the next target of the AA was John Watson himself.
1. Sweet Dreams

**More Elaborate Summary:** Assassins!AU. The I.O.U Agency is good. Their missions are good. Objectives noble. That is what introverted 19-year old agent John Watson was told to believe, trained as a killer from a young age. And so, he believed it. Everyone did. That is, of course, until his best friend Sherlock Holmes turned on the agency, joining the AA, and leaving John Watson at the mercy of brutal interrogations. No one expected it. No one knew what to think. John was told to just forget about him, forget about the best friend he could ever know. And so he did. Until the next target of the AA was John Watson himself.

**Author's Note**: I don't know what ships will be here yet, if any. Romance is not the main focus, but affection will be abundant. Not sure about the length either. Could be anywhere from a couple chapters to a few dozen; it depends on the response I get mostly.

I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

** Chapter 1: Sweet Dreams**

_The metal-clad fist went flying against 17-year old John Watson's face._

_ This time, a loud cracking noise could be heard. John groaned, but it was almost inaudible. He could not show weakness. Not now, not ever. But even so, he knew he would not be able to take much more of this. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he?_

_ "I will ask you one more time," said the voice of his assaulter, some agent John had never seen before who was twice his age, in his low bark of a voice, devoid of all sympathy. Oh, he was enjoying it, John knew. The sick bastard was enjoying it._

_ "I don't know…" John whispered, finding it hard to raise his voice above this. That was a lie, of course. He did know. "Jesus Christ, I don't know." Heavy breathing. He found it hard to breathe. _

_ "Where is Sherlock Holmes?"_

_ "I don't know!" John exclaimed, but the blood that was gushing from his nose was making it hard to speak. He felt himself tense, eyes closing, blocking out the little he could see through his puffy slits. And then he felt the impact again, the devastatingly hard fist on his face._

_ This time John's head went flying in the direction of the shining, metal-encased fist. He was at the man's complete mercy. There was nothing he could do. Why was he protecting Sherlock? Why did he suffer this torture for someone who left all of them for dead, left him for dead?_

_ And then he felt tears on his face. Tears. John Watson, the toughest, most respected previous trainee and new recruit was crying. This hurt him more than the fist could. This was humility; this was the real pain._

_ "Stop it," John said, his voice barely audible._

_ "What did you say?" the man asked with a leer._

_ "I said stop it!" John said, only marginally louder._

_ "So, you're prepared to tell us where he is?" the assaulter asked, excitement and disappointment heavy in his voice. He didn't even try to hide it._

_ "I…" John said, licking his lips. What if he did say it? What if he did tell this man where Sherlock was? This pain and humiliation could end. Oh god, did he want it to end. Why wouldn't he just say it? "I…I would tell you if I knew." Sherlock was a traitor. "But…but I don't!"_

_ John did not look at his attacker. God, he wanted this to end. Please let it end. He had not felt like this ever before— none of his punishments were this brutal._

_ The assaulter cracked his knuckles and let out a noise that sounded too much like the growl of a lion, causing John to pull against his restraints once again, even though it was in vain. Blood was pooling at his wrists from the chafing of his flesh against the cold metal, now turned hot from the heat emanating from his body in the flight-or-fight response. _

_ "Do we need to get Director Moriarty involved in this?" the man asked John, his voice sounding far too close to John for comfort._

_ "No!" That was too loud. "No," John said, forcing a false layer of calm into his voice, forcing himself not to sound as broken as he felt. "No, because…because he's already involved. He doesn't…he doesn't need to come down here as well."_

_ And then he heard it._

_ He heard it for the first time, and he knew it would be for the last. _

_ Director Jim Moriarty._

_ John never saw Moriarty, but he would recognize that voice from anywhere— the voice that struck fear into anyone who had ever heard of him, heard of the Director._

_ "Yeah, well," Moriarty's voice said, coated with amusement, dripping with false-apathy. "Too bad, right?"_

_ John did not want to die._

_ "I don't know anything," John hissed, voice rising in desperation. "I don't know anything! Do you know Sherlock Holmes?"_

_ "Of course I do," Moriarty said, with a lightheartedness that was more disconcerting than if he had used a stereotypical threatening voice. "Because…"_

_ And suddenly, John found himself staring up at Moriarty._

_ "I am Sherlock Holmes." _

19-year old John Watson woke up and instantly flung himself into a sitting position, hand ducking under the pillow for his gun. His body was tense and the sheets were damp from cold sweat. He could feel himself shaking. He was _shaking, _damn it_. _

"John?" a gentle, sleep-muffled voice whispered from John's side. Mary.

Oh. Mary. It was just Mary. John felt himself slowly deflate. No attacker. No randomly transforming directors into traitors. Just Mary. His muscles began to relax, and his room finally came into focus. He could see the old stool, even through the darkness, beside the windows draped with the standard white of the I.O.U Agency. His closet was positioned at the wall opposing it— there were no torture tools lined up evenly against it on a blood stained metal cart. Nothing of that sort.

"John? Are you alright?" Mary asked again, sitting up beside him, pulling the blanket over her bare chest in a subconscious attempt at modesty.

John looked over at her. Mary had been there ever since Sherlock had left. She was always there for him, ready to comfort him when he needed it most— a balm for his injuries, a protector when he was most vulnerable. Mary. He bit his lip. Could he tell her about the dream? It had plagued him for months now. The same dream, with the same outcome. If anyone knew about the dream— if anyone realized that John had not forgotten— he would be killed. But, even so, if he couldn't trust Mary, he couldn't trust anyone.

"I…I'm fine," John said, nodding, rubbing his now alert eyes tiredly with the tips of his fingers. "Just a bad dream. Nothing important."

Even through this nearly absolute darkness, John could see Mary's quizzical eyes narrowing in doubt. "Oh, yes? Just a bad dream, right? Nothing I should be worried about?"

"Uh-huh," John replied, though he felt a prickling sense of unease as he felt Mary's doubtful glare on him.

And then, her voice grew playful. "You know," she said cheekily, "I still did beat you on the Lie Detector exam. What was the score you got? 700/800?"

"Oh, shut up," John said, feeling himself smile despite the fact that his heart beat had still not slowed down, despite the fact he could see the images vividly in his mind.

"Guess who got a perfect score, and guess who's not fooled," Mary said, a little bit more harshly this time. "I know you'd like to think you're better at me with this stuff, but you're really not, you know. I know you, John."

"Yeah well, you know me a bit better than I'd like," John said, reminiscing on the nights events a few hours ago with a wry smile. Suddenly realizing the full impact of it, he frowned, but it was a more mock-frown than a serious one, with amusement evident in his voice. "Mary, you know it's risky like this. You can't just sneak into my bedroom every night. I've _finally _got my own one in this place. You know how nice it is to be away from those bloody idiot agents who _still _think it in excellent idea to put shaving cream on your face when you sleep. Or shave your eyebrows. If they knew you were in here, we'd both be in trouble. And, I'd lose the room."

"Shush!" Mary said with a laugh. "What could they _possibly _do to me?" she asked, sliding her hand across John's back. John sighed. The comfort was very welcome. It was only too bad that there still was this barrier between them, between the things that he could say and could not. "You know I probably could kick any of their asses in two seconds flat! Even the older agents."

"Yeah, well," John replied, "I still like this room. And if I lose it, we wouldn't be able to have so much alone time."

"Hmm…yeah, I guess so," Mary said mock-reluctantly.

She slid from her spot at the end of the bed and into John's waiting arms. He pulled her into an embrace, feeling her warmth, and inhaling her sweet scent. God, was he lucky to have such a woman with him. Someone so brilliant, so strong, so kind…

John pressed his lips against hers, and they lay like that for a while. The nightmare suddenly did not seem so very important. Oh, so what that he humiliated himself to that extent those years ago? He had gotten better. So what if his emotions took the better of his logic, when he clearly should have told the assaulter the information he needed? It would have saved them both a lot of trouble.

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the past. He might as well have never been there, never existed. Yes, the gaping hole in his heart that grinned widely in his chest had never really stitched shut, but no one is perfect. He would heal, he knew he would. Eventually, with some more time, he knew he would heal from the betrayal.

And then they pulled apart. John and Mary sat there, watching each other with little smiles the hid the secrets no one could know about.

Mary was the one to break the faerie-tale silence.

"I should go back now," she said with a sigh. "You know how hard it is to sneak back after sunrise. The night guards are actually _awake _then, if you'd believe that."

"No, you're lying," John said, amusement tinting his soft tone.

"See you at training," Mary whispered, planting a kiss on his unshaven cheek. "We'll talk about that dream later, alright?"

With that, she slid off the bed, collected her various possessions from the floor, slid them on, and before John knew what was happening, she had slithered through the door, out of sight. John was, once again, alone with his thoughts.

He then gave a low sigh, and leaned back into bed. He guessed that he could not put his faith in a single human being after all, not after Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. _Why_ had he abandoned him? Why? What was he to gain from it?

_He always liked to talk about how he's a psychop—, sorry, a fully functioning sociopath, _John thought bitterly. _I guess he actually was. _

Or, perhaps, he may have not realized how much Sherlock meant to him, John didn't know. What he did know was that Sherlock Holmes was now his number one enemy, and the man that he would eventually have to terminate. Everyone from AA, the organization against I.O.U Agency, would have to be.

_No point thinking about it now, _John decided. No point at all. All John would have to do was focus on his missions, and make sure the outside world would not see what the I.O.U Agency was _actually _doing. No, it was not a technology facility or whatever the hell their cover was (he honestly didn't even know). The people working there would just…purge (yes, purge, not murder) the people of the world who did not belong there. It had to be kept in secrecy, because the government wouldn't understand. Yes, that was it.

With that concept re-ingrained in his thinking process, John slid the covers back over him and tried to get back to sleep.

But all the while he felt this odd sensation. It was as if someone was watching him, staring at him through unfeeling eyes. But, then again, it could only be his paranoia acting up. _Yes, _John decided, _yes, that must be it. Besides, the camera's Mary hacked into must have been turned on by now. _Not wanting to allow himself to succumb to his paranoia, John turned the other way of where this feeling derived, and firmly shut his eyes.

He should have turned around.


	2. Bang

**Chapter 2: Bang**

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

John shot the three targets in the main training room in what seemed like half a second the following morning, with Mary standing a foot or two behind him. Each shot was a direct hit, creating a small hole in the chest area of the holographic person.

The training area was one of the most high-tech segments of the building. The holographic images dancing across the empty hall before them could take the form of any human being, so that each target looked almost uncannily real.

But, he was used to it. John turned around towards Mary, a small smirk of satisfaction written across his face. Mary raised her eyebrows in turn and looked back at him.

"Oh, so you think you're going to impress me like that?" Mary scoffed playfully.

"Well, it was worth a shot," John said with a shrug, handing Mary the standardized issued handgun.

Mary gave him a mock-offended look and pulled out her own— a new model he did not recognize. She then pulled the earmuffs back over her ears and safety goggles over her eyes (John followed suite) and held the gun in position.

John pressed an activation button, and the area in front of them lit up with what seemed to be human targets. They zigzagged across Mary and John's vision, and John realized that the targets were not very randomized or varied this time— they vast majority were considerably young, and many of them were children. John turned instinctively towards his girlfriend. _She's not going to want this playing field, _John decided, but before the words could leave his lips, his eyes drifted across Mary's face, and he stopped himself. Her face was strangely slack and expressionless, an aura of extreme concentration hovering about her. But there was something else there that chilled him. Something more gruesome…a strange glint in her eye that he could not quite identify…

Her hands recoiled slightly, but she didn't even blink as she knocked down five young moving targets in the same amount of time it took John to do three. She then tilted the gun to the side, and with the same precision, blasted all of the targets hovering in the back without a moment of hesitation, without a moment of discernable thought. She was no longer Mary. She was a machine gun.

And then the earmuffs went off, the goggles hung limply at her collarbone, and she was smiling at him.

Well, John couldn't say that he wasn't impressed. He rarely got the opportunity to practice with her, and most of their missions did not entail an all-out gunfight (most of them were quick, silent assassinations) and so he hardly ever saw her take down so many moving targets. _That was brutal, _he found himself thinking.

When John did not respond, Mary's grin faltered slightly. "What?" she looked back at the set in confusion, and upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, she looked back at him. "What? What is it John?"

_Oh, this is only a simulation, idiot! _John silently hissed at himself. _She wouldn't actually kill those children without reason. This is a simulation. _

"How did you get that good?" John said, allowing a smile to reappear on his lips. Yes, that was the problem. Not the people she shot; the thing that was most interesting about her bout of shooting was the fact she could execute each shot with such infallible precision. "You're a new recruit. You couldn't have been on more than five or six missions." He had done a grand total of five so far himself, and even he, the top in his class, did not have a skill level to match Mary's.

Mary laughed. "Oh, is that what you're on about? I'm just that good, John. No secret to it," she said. She nudged him playfully on the arm. "Just accept it; I'm better than you."

"No, you're not," John replied, half-laughing. "You just got lucky. And I've never seen that kind of gun before, is it a new, more accurate model? Cause if so—"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright John, maybe it _is _more accurate, if you want to make yourself feel better," she said impatiently. "But I could do the same thing with a normal handgun."

"Let's see then," John said.

Mary motioned to John's handgun, still limply clamped in his fist, but he shook his head, slightly sheepishly. "I think this one's out of bullets, though."

Amusement blossomed on Mary's features. "Why'd you offer it to me in the beginning, then?"

"No reason," John replied, looking away obviously, trying to show himself as if he were a child caught in the act of setting up a prank. "So, about those bullets, huh?"

"Fine, fine, I'll be right back," Mary said.

She turned to leave, but stopped suddenly in her tracks. And then, as an afterthought, she turned around and planted a kiss on John's cheek. Taken aback slightly by this, he made no move to stop her as Mary retreated towards the weapon's supply room.

But, even as he watched her, something inside him stirred.

A strange feeling. A gut feeling.

Suddenly, John did not want her going into the supply room at all. He did not want her to go. She couldn't go. Didn't she feel it? Why was she going?

_Wait, Mary, _John thought, but could not find the voice to speak aloud. Something was about to happen. Something.

And then, a flash of shame shot through him. His fear was unfounded. What was he doing, thinking so superstitiously? Was this how John Watson was supposed to act? John Watson the assassin?

_Don't be ridiculous, John, _he thought. However, he didn't think it in his own voice. For some inexplicable reason, despite the fact he had not heard the voice in years, the voice in his head was not his own.

It was Sherlock's.

And that was the moment when he understood what was about to take place. What was about to happen.

John took a step forward, about to call out to her despite the fact she wouldn't be able to hear him. But, as it always frustratingly was, it would prove to be too late.

He closed his eyes a second too late.

But, also a second soon enough.

John felt himself lose contact with the ground as the blossom of fire exploded several dozen yards from him, and he seemed to hover through nothingness for what seemed like hours. And then came the feeling of crashing, the feeling that came with having a car intercept with one's back.

Darkness fogged his vision as the pain bolted to his skull. He could not think; he could not breathe. Everything was a swirl of red and black and the smell of fire, and of thick smoke that suffocated him.

_I can't breathe._

Helplessness. That is what he felt, it was helplessness. He could do nothing as terror flooded through his mind, confusion clouding every inch of his rational thinking process; panic, terror, confusion.

_Jesus Christ, _was the only thought he could formulate. _What the hell…?_

The left side of his face might as well have been on fire. Pain sprouted on every inch of his flesh, and despite the fact that his breathing had returned to him, it was labored and shallow; quick and painful.

_Get up. _Yes, he had to get up. John had to get up. _Get up, get up, get up._

John blindly felt for the hardness behind him. His head was pounding, his face was burning; his back was crippling him. An agonizing cry tore from his throat as he slid his body up the wall. This small action took every ounce of his strength and willpower, as even this small movement sent a ripple of agony up his spine.

_Get the gun. _His mind was giving him instructions. He couldn't think, but John's mind read the instructions off god knows where. _Get the gun now. Get the gun._

What gun?

John's eyes opened slowly, mechanically, and a blur of color returned to him. That was when he realized that he could not hear anything.

Only a buzz.

It was a faint, omnipresent buzz that could have been there all along.

_You need to find Mary, _the mechanical voice in John's head said. _Find the gun so you can find Mary._

John did not immediately recognize the correlation between the two events, but nonetheless he yielded to his instincts and, well, promptly fell to the floor.

_You're so helpless. Useless. You can't do anything. You're at the mercy of events. Riding the current._

Whose voice was that? So full of malice and spite. Why was it in Sherlock's voice? He never said any of that.

John crawled, feeling the panic and terror coursing through him, intermingling with desperation, as he moved slowly nearer to a gray blur with a metallic tint several feet away from him.

So quiet. So deathly quiet. What was happening? How did everything change so suddenly?

There.

John felt his fingers hit against the metal and curl around it. Gun. Yes, it was a gun.

He swung his arm around. It hit against a sturdy surface— a wall.

John, feeling the blackness edge around his vision, pushed himself up the wall. He became conscious of a shaking in his knees; shaking and pain.

_Find Mary._

His face was burning so violently… It hurt so much. But what had happened to Mary?

_Find Mary._

And then a different kind of terror submerged him. This terror had nothing to do with confusion. It had nothing to do with the unknown. This terror, in fact, spawned from the very opposite: of knowledge. It spawned from knowing.

Once he realized what must have inevitably happened, the pain did not seem so intense. It didn't hurt anymore. His frying flesh, his convulsing muscles, the stabbing agony in his back, the shaking of his body— none of it hurt anymore.

His knowledge hurt.

His knowledge was torture.

The blurriness around his vision was subsiding. Color was returning. Fuzzy edges were sharpening, as if he were putting on glasses.

Smoke coated everything, bathing everything in blackness. He could see fragments of what previously had to be wall now rubble on the once smooth ground. In fact, he could hardly make out the sleek grayness of the training room floor— did it ever even exist? All that existed was rubble.

He became suddenly aware that something was penetrating the wall of ringing that made him unable to hear.

Muffled tones and voices became evident. What were they saying? No, what did it matter, he had to find Mary.

Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

As he tried to step forward, the world hazed over and spun around him, like he had just gotten off of a merry-go-round.

"—'s one here."

"He—sur—?"

"O—"

Disconnected syllables and phrases hit against him, but only entered one ear. The other ear was still buzzing.

"Who's there?" That's what John said, in his drunken, half-conscious state.

Figures suddenly came to view. However, their faces were hidden in shadow and blur. He could not make them out even if, he reasoned, he saw them without having his head smashed against a wall.

John watched as the figures drew closer to him. John tried to stumble back, and did so successfully. He, however, found himself ungracefully sprawled against the wall.

_The gun._

He raised the hand with the weapon, which was the one thing that his hope still stemmed from. It shook violently, his hand, and he was unable to position it accurately at the figures. All he knew was that these figures were the source of this sudden chaos.

Suddenly, the gun was flung from his grasp as one of the figures smashed their hand into his own.

He was completely helpless, completely on his own.

And suddenly he wasn't here, at all.

Suddenly, he was in the interrogation room.

Why else would he hurt so much?

_"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"_

_ "I don't know."_

_ Pain._

_ "Where is—"_

_ "I don't know."_

_ Sobbing._

But— no. No, he wasn't in the interrogation room; he was in the training room as it had exploded, and John had to fight back. He had to go and see what happened to Mary…

One of the figures raised their hands, which seemed to be far too long to be a hand. No, it wasn't a hand. It was some sort of baton or bat…

Pain only momentarily shot through his head as the world once again spun out of control, and then darkness completely fogged over.

* * *

The first thing that John was aware of when he realized he existed was the fact that he could not see anything. Then again, once he spent a moment dwelling on this, he realized that he found it hard to breathe as well.

_Something's on my head… _he decided groggily. _So I can't see…_

Only then did the pain decide to hit him. He recoiled as his back exploded in a dull agony, as his throbbing flesh became excruciatingly unbearable, as his mind flooded with the events that had recently occurred.

He was sitting down. Rather, he was slouching against something softer than he had imagined, but uncomfortable nonetheless. _Car seat? _

John forced his aching form into a slightly more dignified position. He tried to move his arms, but they refused to yield to his desire. They were firmly pressed together behind him, held in place by cold metal that he could identify only as handcuffs.

He needed to assess the situation as much as was physically possible if he wanted to emerge from it alive.

The car seat beneath him was vibrating, and he felt himself swaying slightly with the movement of the automobile. With these fragments of evidence in mind, he decided that he was, in fact, in a car, or truck perhaps— just some form of moving vehicle.

_Wait, _John suddenly thought. He had no idea if anyone was watching him, or if anyone was near him, and what exactly they were planning to do with him. What if they were told to shoot him on sight if he showed any signs of movement?

With this thought in mind, John immediately forced his body to slacken (without much difficulty, given his weakened state), and let his head loll to the side.

Someone was talking in the general vicinity of the front. The ringing in his ear seemed to have died down somewhat, but the sound would not travel through it. The voices only moved through his right ear, and therefore made it hard to hear.

"Here. Stop here." It was a woman's voice.

Someone next to her grunted in what John could only identify as approval, and he felt the car slow until it was stationary.

The sound of a door slamming shut rung through the now-silence, and then there was nothing.

Emotion seemed to have been suppressed in John's disoriented, agonized state. He knew he should feel scared, but he found it hard to feel anything at all.

John suddenly felt air rush in towards him, and hands pulled at his arms. He stumbled out of the vehicle as whoever had grabbed him pulled him away from it.

Pain shot through the spot where the person's hand clamped over his, but he could not find the strength or logic to fight back.

Voice rang out once again.

"Here, this is the only one we have," the woman who had previously spoke said, to…someone, shoving John forward.

"Well, doesn't he look great?" the man who she must have been speaking to replied.

"What do you want us to do with him?" the woman asked. "He survived, and I'm certain he saw our faces. We couldn't kill him, because a bullet wound would have looked too suspicious, and we couldn't leave him, because we'd be indentified."

"Yes, well, I suppose so," the man speaking said in a bored, unimpressed tone. "Do you even know who he is?"

There was a moment of silence. "No, half his face was fried from the bomb, and the other half was covered in blood. A shard must have cut him. It was too dark to see him, anyway."

"Well, aren't you going to uncover him now?" the man asked.

The wall of black covering his eyes suddenly flooded with hazy, dark color, and he blinked into the night, staring at the man before him.

He was tall, with a neat comb of brown hair, and a pointed face that emanated an aura of extreme loftiness. This was a loftiness John had seen so many times on someone else…someone he could not think about now…

The man pressed his lips together and lowered his eyebrows as he attempted to identify John, drawing too close to his face for comfort.

_Keep away…_ John thought weakly.

Then, he shook his head. "No. I don't recognize him. He's not important. They'll think he was fried in the explosion. Kill him. Throw his body off the ledge."

_What? _

"Understood," the woman said, a tone of anticipation evident.

The woman threw John to the floor, where he fell down onto his knees, head lolling forward.

_No._

John heard the characteristic click of a gun in position.

_No. No. No._

He could almost feel the coldness emanating from the metallic death machine as it drew closer to his skull.

_I don't want to die._

But, he couldn't move. Something stopped him from moving. Even if he did, he would be dead long before he stood.

_Please, God, let me live…_

John closed his eyes…

"Stop!"

The voice rang out in the silence, like a whistle in the middle of a gymnasium. There was a slight note of desperation, a slight note of panic. Perhaps that was why John did not recognize it at first.

"What? What is it, _now_?" the man who initially had sentenced John to death said, voice sounding decidedly sour.

"Don't kill him," the man who had halted the attack said. However, this time, the tone had shifted. The initial threat to John's life was over. He could now relax. The voice was cool and calculated. It was even and quick, like the temperament of a lake in summertime, but it was very clearly understandable, and carried the same aura of arrogance that the other man possessed.

"And why not?"

"Because we'll need him, Mycroft. Don't you see? I thought you were cleverer than that."

"We won't need him. He'll only hinder us."

"No, he won't."

That was when the man finally came into John's view. He registered the piercing bluish-green eyes first, the curly locks second, and understood the full impact of these characteristics last.

"You alright, John?" the man asked.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

**End of Chapter 2**


	3. More Painful Than Uncertainty

**Chapter 3: More Painful Than Uncertainty**

John did not respond.

"John!" Sherlock repeated, shaking John's shoulders slightly. His eyebrows were creased inwardly.

"Oh, that's John Watson, then?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes. John! Are you in shock? Is he in shock? He's not in shock." John could not tell if there was panic in his voice or not. Most likely not. It was far too smooth and cool.

"No, no he's not," Mycroft agreed, looking down at John with mild curiosity, as if he were scrutinizing a particularly repulsive strain of bacteria, slowly dying in its petri dish.

Sherlock glanced quickly over John's tattered body as he stood, rigid. Fear, apprehension, a suffocating feeling betrayal, and agony both physically and mentally rooted him to the spot.

"Second degree burns, left side of face. Chemical? Wait…bomb. A weak bomb went off several meters from him. It could be a…" Sherlock's voice was quick and smooth, barely pausing between words and sentences. John had stopped listening. His pulse was rising rapidly despite the fact that it had not slowed down from before.

John had to think. Yes, that is what he had to do; think. _Think, John! _Just like Sherlock always had said.

Sherlock had joined the A.A; John forced his mind to understand this. If Sherlock was here, then only one conclusion could be extracted from this…

"Get away from me!" John exclaimed suddenly, stumbling backwards, forcing himself to stand upright. Fruitless; In vain. Futile, Hopeless attempts…

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and said, defensively, "Okay! So, you're not delirious then…_sorry._ But, what you _are_, is—"

"No, that's not what I—" John said as agony coursed through him, as he tried to dash back, only to fall heavily against the black automobile he must have exited from.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "if he's going to be a problem, we'll have to kill him." Oh, so John was nothing but a nuisance to him. _Interesting, _John thought weakly, _interesting._

He pulled once again at his restraints.

"Brother dear," Sherlock said, a note of annoyance clearly evident as he pulled himself to his full height and glared at Mycroft. "Do you understand the full impact of having someone fresh from I.O.U with us? Do you have any idea how beneficial this could be for us?"

_Oh, _John thought savagely. _I see._

"Not if he has a tracking device," Mycroft replied.

"I trusted that you'd take care of that for me," Sherlock said. He turned back to John. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to…going to help you, if that's what you're…what you're after!" John hissed, shakily pulling away from the van.

Confusion appeared in Sherlock's eyes; a foreign expression John rarely witnessed. "What are you talking about? Perhaps you should sit back down in the van. You need medical attention." He paused. "Why are you so frantic?'

"I'm still going for delirious," Mycroft added unhelpfully.

"Why am I frantic?" John spat. "_Why am I frantic? _Sherlock…_Sherlock_, you abandon me, leave me for dead at the mercy of interrogators—"

Sherlock scoffed. "You could have handled it. Now get—"

"I could have— I could have— _Sherlock! _Do you have any idea…? No, never mind. Why would you care?"

John was shaking.

His mind felt raw, as if someone had whipped it.

How could Sherlock not understand? What was John doing, anyway; he should have been running. _Then again, _John thought, _where the hell would I even go? They would kill me…they would. What do I do? _

Sherlock did not say anything. However, John could tell that it was not speechlessness that kept his mouth shut; it was actual… _confusion. _He was processing this newfound information, trying to _make sense of it. _

_Why is this so hard to understand!? _John thought.

"Why did you leave?" John demanded. "Why did you leave the I.O.U agency? Why are you here? What the hell are you doing here? Why did you betray us— betray _me_?"

Desperation. Pain. Agony. Hurt…

Clarity reappeared in Sherlock's eyes. He nodded, a smile of satisfaction stretching across his lips. "I suspect a concussion," Sherlock said to Mycroft.

"I suspect we need to hurry and get back to base," the woman from before said from driver seat of the car. "We don't know if the I.O.U has tracked us here or not. We can't stay at this checkpoint for too long."

"They didn't," Mycroft said, waving her aside. 

"I am not delirious!" John exclaimed.

Blackness was inching around his vision. Dizziness began spreading through what little he could see of the faded day. John's hand reached automatically for the van.

_I need medical attention, _he agreed, suddenly reminded of the throbbing pain all down his body and up his back, stretching into his skull.

"Get him back in the van," Sherlock said.

John was at their mercy. He was powerless. There was nothing he could do. He could hardly walk, let alone run if he even had the opportunity. He could hardly think straight, let alone shoot straight if he had a gun.

_Why is Sherlock so calm through all of this? Why does he seem so…so…_

The woman from before (well, the only woman who he had seen here anyway) walked over to John, crossed her arms, and said. "Is my interference necessary to get you back into the van?"

John looked up at her. He had no idea how to respond. He tried, but a stuttering, halting mess of syllables fell from his lips.

"Okay," she replied.

Within moments, John was securely fastened to the backseat, shoved between various bits of shining equipment. The seatbelt was almost mockingly draped over him by…whoever Mycroft was, and his restraints prevented him from taking any action to escape.

"Are you coming now?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice responded. "Its time for me to leave my post here and go back to base. Mycroft?"

"Oh, I've got for more important business to take care of than to wilt away in headquarters."

John let his head fall onto the seat, and he closed his eyes as he heard the shutting of doors and felt the vibration of the van as it began to tear away from…wherever they had just been.

There was nothing but silence for exactly twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.

"I know it took long to get you here, John," Sherlock said finally, from the front seat. "But, there was no alternative. We simply could not have got you out sooner; it wouldn't have worked well with our plans and schedules, after all. You know how it is, I trust."

John let out a hollow bark of laughter. "As if I wanted to go out and go with you pathetic lot." Ouch. Talking hurt.

John opened his eyes, which caught the mirror dangling from the ceiling of the car in between the two passenger seats. Sherlock's eyes were reflected in them, gazing eerily back at John in that way John always despised; that glare which intimated that they both knew exactly what was going on, when John in reality had no idea.

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because all of you are damn terrorists!"

Too loud. More pain. Dizziness. Burning agony; fogging around the eyes…

Before Sherlock could say another word, a loud noise exploded, muffled, from somewhere outside the van, breaking the roll of feverish conversation.

And then again.

And again.

And a final time.

This time, John felt himself fling forward in his seat, cut short only by the seatbelt strapped across his chair.

"Shit!" the woman in the front exclaimed. "What was that?"

"Well, obviously, they've found us," Sherlock said coolly.

_They've what?_

"That's not possible," the woman countered. "How the hell did they manage that!?"

"Not from John's tracker," Sherlock said, glaring into the small computerized window on the dashboard, revealing what was going on behind the van.

"Why are they after us!?" the woman exclaimed. "We aren't even the main threat!"

The vehicle suddenly careened to the side as a loud noise, almost like the crack of a firework, exploded from somewhere behind them.

"They must have sent out multiple people after your group," Sherlock said, putting emphasis on the _you. _"John, we told you to be subtle!"

"What the hell are you talking about!?" John exclaimed.

_Bang, bang, bang. _

"I told you not to draw attention to yourself when we'd be getting you out," Sherlock said.

John glared at him through unfocused slits.

"Not draw attention to myself as you…as you _kidnap me? _As you _blow up the bloody building_?" Breathing was difficult, and his burning body caused him to gasp for air, which consequently did not help fight this pain.

"That wasn't us!" Sherlock snapped.

"It…what?"

"It wasn't us, John, and you know it. I think your concussion is more severe that I've initially anticipated."

"My concussion is…!? I don't have a—"

"Is this an Armin model vehicle?" Sherlock called to the woman, ignoring John for a moment.

_Please let them find me… _John silently begged. _I don't know what to do. _

"No," she said breathlessly. "This is a Metallic 2.0 model."

"Brilliant. Doesn't it have a firing option, though!?"

"Yes, but firing at them now would do substantial damage to it! The guns that the assholes in the I.O.U will soon be piercing through the van, Sherlock."

"I know!" Sherlock exclaimed, frustration biting at his tone as the woman sped the van through the darkness. Sherlock tapped the window of the van harshly as it zigzagged across the empty road, the banging sounds of the guns still piercing the air.

"There, there, there!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, pointing furiously towards a sign that lead to a nearby city that John didn't recognize.

The van instantaneously flung towards the fork in the road towards the sign, disorienting their pursuers as they skidded to the area between the two paths, as they had driven too fast and turned to slowly to go through only one of them. John saw, out of the corner of his eye, the van slide several meters through the metal barrier, crushing it instantly, but not destroying the automobile itself.

"Why are we going this way?" the woman called out to Sherlock. "Other than the whole stalling idea you have going on?"

"How long do you think they'll manage to trail us through an area with people? A crowded area?" Sherlock asked her, not expecting a response. "Their vehicle would draw attention to the authorities; did you even look at their vehicle? Like _really _look at it? Its hidden well, but its clearly an illegal version of the Mongol 6.0. But, of course you didn't notice, you're not perceptive enough; I've noticed that a lot about you. And besides, they need to keep their cover, and if they caused a mess, it would draw attention to all of us and their cover would be dropped. John is not worth that much to them. And don't be offended John, that's a good thing."

"What?" John snapped.

"Keep right, they'll expect us to go left," Sherlock said as an afterthought, looking back to the small screen on the dashboard. "They're not nearby, but I expect they're still going to chase us until their wheels pop. We'll need to lose them a different way. For now I expect we need to keep on guard." Sherlock hung his elbow out the window, the gun concealed behind the door in his closed fist, but close enough that he could shoot easily if prompted.

The woman at the wheel gripped it more tightly, but did not respond to the insults or anything else.

"Hurry up, though," Sherlock continued. "John isn't looking well at all. He needs medical attention now, but the bomb must have been weak, since it did not do all that much damage to him…" there was a strange tone in his voice, as if he were desperately hope that was true, "Well, he's not dead. You alright, John?"

"No!" John yelled. "No, I'm not, okay! Sherlock, _Sherlock, _what the hell is going on here?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. He knew he wasn't talking about his wounds. He trusted him to this extent. "We're rescuing you."

"Rescuing…_rescuing me?_" John asked, the pounding aches throughout his body making it want to do nothing more than to fall into the waiting embrace of unconsciousness. "You're not doing anything of that sort! You're just…you…you left me, Sherlock. You left me and…and betrayed all of us!"

Sherlock and the woman exchanged glances.

"I'll call in a medic the moment we're in a safety zone," the woman said, nodding, peering through the rearview mirror.

"Jesus Christ," John said, falling back against the seat.

"It's alright John," Sherlock said awkwardly. He was not one to reassure people often, and it came as a shock that he was doing as so to John. "We'll get you, uh, fixed up in no time."

"You're not getting it…you're not _getting it_," John exclaimed. "What I'm…what I'm saying won't…agh…it won't change after you've done whatever you think will help me!"

And then, the memory hit him faster than he thought possible; the impact of the thought causing him to lose the ability to breathe for a moment.

"Where is Mary?" John said suddenly, voice almost inaudible.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Mary. Where. Is. Mary. Sherlock, where is she?"

Pause.

"Why should I know?"

Why should he know. Not how should he know.

"Sherlock Holmes, I know that you damn well know what happened to her. You know everything about all those who used to call you _friend_, and she was your friend too."

"I know."

"What?"

"I know, John. I know that I should know."

"So do you? Hm? Do you, you coward?"

Sherlock tapped the gun against the side of the door. There was frustration visible in the sharp impact of the metal against the door. "I wasn't there myself, John, all I know is from what I've heard, and what I've heard is that someone set off the explosive, and that the bomb was suicide-based. You'd have to step on it for it to go off, and it would, well, it would go off then. I also heard that the last person to go to the weapons room was…"

"Was Mary, right?"

"Yes, John."

John closed his eyes. Well, so Mary was dead, right? Okay, John could deal with that. He could deal with it. Yes, he certainly could deal with losing the only person in the world other than Sherlock (no, no, not other than Sherlock; he hated Sherlock) that he cared about. Okay.

"Oh this is all your fault, Sherlock," John said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock did not respond. If it was that he didn't hear John or simply did not want to respond, John didn't know.

_Well, it doesn't matter now,_ John thought. _Nothing matters now._

_Pull yourself together, _a voice in his head countered sharply. _You cannot give up now. You cannot give up because your girlfriend died._

_ Watch me, _John responded to his thought, and he stopped thinking.

This was pain. No, not the searing agony of his flesh or aching of his spine; this was pain. Knowledge. This was the one thing more painful that uncertainty, more painful that the horrible aching of being forced to wait, forced to speculate.

This knowledge was final and undeniable. There was nothing anyone could do about it. There was no way to make it alright.

But, John the assassin could deal with it. Yes, John the assassin could. But, perhaps it would be a different story with John the boyfriend.

"Sherlock!" the woman suddenly exclaimed.

Did something just happen?

"FASTER!" was all Sherlock could say before the van went flying forward. John could suddenly hear the screeching of the tires before the car tipped forward, the windshield instantaneously displaying nothing but the black background and white slices of asphalt on the road.

The woman probably screamed.

Sherlock didn't say anything, probably.

John didn't really realize what was going on.

And then his head smashed against the window of the van.

And then John was lost.

**End of Chapter 3**


	4. Interlude

**Chapter 4: Interlude **

"Agent Hooper," the voice said.

18-year old Molly Hooper instantly let her fist drop mid-punch. The heavy bag dangling from a rusty chain in the training room hit against her side, and she quickly steadied it. "Um…yes?" Her breath was labored from her training bout. Molly finally tore her attention from the punching bag and fixated it on the visitor.

"Agent Holmes just came back from his mission," Agent Greg Lestrade replied, leaning back against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

The tone in Lestrade's voice made her stiffen. She bit her lip and said, "Alright..."

"I just thought you, well, you might have wanted to know…"

"I'm…glad you told me, I guess," Molly said awkwardly, eyebrows creasing downward. Lestrade hardly ever talked to her— they were at best colleagues, and just barely. What was he doing talking to her now? "But…is he alright? Sherlock, I mean. Wait, no," she turned red, "I mean Agent Holm…" Molly trailed off.

Lestrade cast the ground a sidelong glance. "Well, I mean, he will be, yeah. The mission went a bit awry, though. But, that bastard always manages to get out of everything at the end. But, I don't have much details, he just came back." The last sentence was spoken in a harried sort of way as Lestrade registered the sudden look of concern that blossomed on the woman's face.

"What do you mean?" she asked, rounding on him. "What do you mean the mission went awry?"

"Ah, well." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "We had to interfere and fish them out."

"Fish them out from…from where? I mean, no I know it was on a mission, but—?"

"From a check point a few miles from here," Lestrade replied, motioning somewhere towards the door.

"But what happened?"

"Well, apparently, they hit a tree."

"They hit a tree."

"Yeah, they hit a tree."

"You're joking, right?"

"It was a big tree."

Molly shook her head. This was becoming increasingly pointless, as she wasn't getting any information out of it. "Okay, so where is he? Sorry, you didn't answer my question…is he alright?"

"I did," Lestrade replied. "He will be."

Frustration bit at Molly and she clenched her fists, consequently cracking her knuckles. "Is he in the hospital section?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

Molly wasted no time in listening to Lestrade's idle chatter. She, nodding politely to him and giving a quick word of thanks, proceeded to barge passed the man, nearly sending him crashing to the floor.

Molly though he might have said something as she sped down the hallway, but she wasn't really listening if he did. She felt a small twang of shame for being rude, but pushed the feeling aside quickly. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably as she struggled through the maze of cracked hallways with chipping paint and flickering lights. She wore tennis shoes— old, torn and decidedly worn tennis shoes that she would have to replace soon, but at least they were quiet. High heels were so impractical with her line of work, even if they _did _make her look nice.

_I know Sherlock doesn't care about me or anything, _Molly found herself thinking, _but I certainly do. I need to see that he's okay… _She hated herself sometimes for the fact that her affections were reserved for this one arrogant, antisocial individual, but that didn't change the fact that she found herself blushing and stuttering whenever he was nearby.

The hallways on this portion of the underground building were narrow and musky, with a strange almost sickly odor intermingled with the characteristic scent of rubbing alcohol. _Like the smell you'd find on a doctor's visit, _Molly mused, but quickly pushed this thought aside. Nervousness forced her thumping heart to reach the height of its unsteady, percussion concert.

The double doors of the hospital section came into view as she rounded the corner. The startlingly bright white paint of the doors contrasted deeply with the brownish-gray walls beside it, with peeling paint revealing chipping rock beneath. Another interesting element of this particular area was the warm light that seeped through the part in the doors and the small, circular windows adorning it. Molly usually took note of this whenever she visited, but now she found that she could not really appreciate the small escape from gloomy darkness.

Molly quickly pushed open the doors and stepped onto the smooth white flooring of the large room. Several clean hospital beds lined each side of the room, and her eyes scanned each in turn, passing over the barely stirring occupants, searching for one particular person…

And there he was.

But, there was someone else there too. Molly did not really register her at first, and instead allowed her eyes to frantically scan Sherlock.

A tan-colored bandage, now stained in a sickening crimson shade, was wrapped across his head, parting his dark, curly hair and masking his entire forehead while overlapping one eye. His arm was in a sling, and he was hooked up to an IV. Several bruises and cuts marred his rough skin, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Molly let out the breath that she had been holding in. It wasn't too bad; not as bad as she'd seen before, at least. Just as Lestrade said: he'd make it through alright.

"Oh, he'll be fine."

Molly suddenly realized that the woman sitting beside Sherlock actually existed. Her eyes scanned the woman's face, and she felt herself stiffen.

Irene Addler stood slowly from the chair, forcing her eyes onto Molly's for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Her hair, normally tied back in an elaborate bun-like structure, now hung in loose sheets by her shoulders. Her eyes were snake-like slits that narrowed in feigned warmth.

"Yes…so I've heard," Molly said. Molly felt her teeth clench. "So, um…what are you doing here?"

"I just came by to visit him, you know," Irene said innocently, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms gently over her chest. "I thought he might like the company."

"He's unconscious, Agent Addler."

"Well, it's the thought that counts."

"What is it that you really wanted from him?"

Irene's eyes widened in mock-offense. "You don't trust me, Molly?"

"Well, it's hard to trust anyone," Molly replied, forcing herself to keep eye contact.

"Well then, I see. Perhaps, I should give you two some alone time, then?"

"Do you know what happened?" Molly said suddenly, motioning to Sherlock.

Irene tapped a finger at her lips. "Well, he did hit a tree. The car, I mean, or van or whatever."

"That van model would have plowed straight through a tree," Molly replied stiffly.

"And so it should have," Irene replied.

"What are you implying?" Molly asked.

"All I'm saying is that it should have gone straight through the tree," Irene replied simply. "But, it didn't. It just hit the tree and stayed there until we were able to intervene. Luckily, the nearest checkpoint was literally right next to the crash site…Nice coincidence, right?" Her words were like poison. They were threatening, despite the fact that they should not have appeared so. There was malicious intent, but guarded heavily by forced innocence.

Molly blinked.

Irene's eyes flitted back over Sherlock's form. She bit her lip and stared in an almost seductive manner back at Molly. "Right?"

Molly did not respond for a moment. "Well, I wouldn't really…I mean, I wouldn't really know, would I?" Frustration tore at her. What was she hiding?

"Good girl. Smart answer," Irene replied, a smirk twisting across her face. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some important business to attend to."

Without giving Molly time to respond, Irene turned pointedly around, and strode out of the hospital room, leaving the other agent staring after her, eyebrows lowered in confusion.

_What was she talking about? _Molly thought angrily. _What could she have possibly been talking about?_

Molly stared sadly down at Sherlock's motionless figure. "I bet you'd know what she was up to," she sighed. "You're the only one who ever could." It was only then that she noticed the occupant of the bed beside Sherlock.

For a moment, because of the bandage wrapped heavily around his head in a manner similar to Sherlock's, Molly was unable to identify the man, and was unsure of why he caught her attention.

And then when she realized who it was, she just stared at him for a while. She just stared at John Watson.

While in reality these events took place, somewhere in a universe quite resembling reality, a different scene was unfolding. This universe, this reality— it resided in the mind of John Watson in the form of a dream. However, the dream was less like a dream, and more like a rewind of memories almost forgotten, memories drawn so far back in his head that they were nearly irretrievable.

The first memory-dream was the day when John Watson, the ten-year old boy newly orphaned, first laid eyes on the brilliant, critical child who would become the man that completely altered the course of John Watson's life. Interestingly enough, that day was bright and sunny, with warm rays of light passing through the windows of the car John was transported in, which deeply contrasted the dark storm of despair raging within him at the time…

**End of Chapter 4**


	5. Silver-Lined Dreaming

**Authors Note:** Here we go, chapter five! Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. I had a lot of schoolwork to take care of, and I will continue to have this aforementioned school work for a few weeks. So, the next couple of chapters may be delayed as well this month! But, to make up for it, I made this next chapter longer than the previous ones; in fact, this chapter is the longest so far! Also, thank you all for reading this story, and a special note of gratitude goes out to all who have taken their time to review and follow my story: your support has given me the inspiration to continue. Now, let me not bore you with more of my blabbering; enjoy Chapter 5!

* * *

**Chapter 5: Silver-Lined Dreaming**

_Nine Years Prior_

_ Now Currently In a Dream _

Ten year-old John Watson sat in the van and stared out of the window.

There was not much else that he could do. He just stared at the colors quickly flashing across his vision outside the glass and wondered why this had happened to him. Why he was now an orphan. Why this man was taking him away. Who was this man?

"You'll be safe with us," he had said. "You'll be safe here." John knew he would not be. He could never be safe again.

John had his hand pressed against the door handle of the car, willing it to open, but having no plan of action if it would. He had cried himself out yesterday when they had found him, sprawled on the grass, sobbing desperately into the damp earth as he watched the orange flames devour his home, burning it all down, licking the sky and dying it the color of a bleeding sunset.

These men took him away before the police could come. John did not cry for a long time; after an hour his sobs became quiet sniffles, and he was silent now as the man drove him through the bright day, with the blazing sunlight sprouting diamonds of light on the metal of the car.

The man in the front spoke to him suddenly.

"Do you know why this tragedy has happened?"

John did not respond. He did not know how to. He simply blinked into the innocently, mockingly baby blue sky harboring the glowing orb that was the sun.

"The people who did this are very, very bad," the man continued. The car made an awkward swerve through traffic and nearly intercepted a large truck, which honked so loudly that it seemed to shake the van. John shifted in his seat. Once the driver had recomposed himself, the man continued in a slow, careful voice that made him appear to be addressing a child much younger than John, "The people who did this are from an organization called the _A.A_. Your parents were involved with them, trying to negotiate with them to be _good._ But, they didn't want to be _good_, and did a very _bad_ you understand?"

John still did not say anything.

John was not five years old.

"I'm sure you do. We will find the people who have…killed them, Mr. Watson. But for now, we are going to need your help. This has happened to a lot of other little kids, _just like you_. They are all alone _too_. We're going to ask you to help us find and destroy the people who commit these terrible crimes."

This was what caught John's attention. "Me?" he said, voice croaky and barely above a whisper. "You want me to…to help catch them?"

"Yes," the man said, seeming eager. "Yes, we do."

John considered this for a moment. Find the people who had turned John's life around in less than a moment? Find the men who had cracked his life into two and send him spiraling into despair? Destroy the people who had killed the two people he loved most in the world?

John could not think of a single thing he would want to do more.

"Of course I will," John whispered.

"Yes, this is _perfect,_" the man said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, seeming delighted that they had reached this conclusion. "We are going to show you exactly what to do. We will teach you to be big and strong and to be able to fight and protect yourself. This is what they would have wanted. Is this what _you _want, John?"

"More…more than anything," John said in a tight voice as he choked down a sob.

"Very good," the man said, nodding.

They said nothing more as a man drove the car into a large, metal, elaborately designed gate that opened when the car drew closer to it. Once they were through, a large, white building came into view. It was large enough to curve from his line of vision and disappear behind itself as he tried to size it up. It seemed to be positioned on or inside some sort of hill as well, and stood taller than many of the large, old trees beside it with innumerable branches that reached out from the trunk like tentacles. Around this building were automobiles of different sizes, shapes, and types, seeming either in perfect organization or looked as if a child had thrown a bag of wind-up cars and dumped it into its play area. Several people were scattered around the perimeter, and the entire area was enclosed by the heavy wooded area it surrounded, right behind the large, metal gate that barricaded the area from the outside world.

The man pulled the car into a bare cement lot and stepped out of it as John watched, mostly indifferent to the situation. His eyes were dull and he felt like his eyelids would close over them soon and pull him into a temporary but welcoming oblivion. If, of course, the nightmares that John knew would eventually come did not puncture it.

The man stretched for a moment and sauntered to the door John sat behind. He flashed him a little smile and pulled it open, allowing the heat from the day to gush into the car, overpowering the coolness of the air-conditioning. The man bent down slightly beside John, extending a hand.

"Are you ready to go?" the man asked John, beckoning to him.

John blinked, but did not respond. The man was not officious; he did not force him out of the car. Once an awkward moment had passed in which John made no move to leave, the man merely straightened himself and retracted his hand; the quintessence of patience. After a moment of hesitation, John slid onto the concrete, blinking into the sun.

_What are they going to do to me? _John thought, but he did as so in an apathetic manner. He was not sure that he cared very much. They were not going to kill him, and they could not make the situation he was in any worse, so there was nothing to do but yield to their wishes. Whoever _they _were, anyway.

The man ushered John into the building, where cool air quickly washed away the nearly unmanageable heat. John looked around as best as he could before the man swiftly led him through a complicated series of hallways. The only things that he to catch were the impressive size of the area opposite the door, which housed an extensive network of glass passageways about twenty feet above it, and the large logo of…whatever the I.O.U Agency was, which was an apple with those letters carved into it. John hadn't a clue about what that could possibly signify, but did not have time to dwell on it as he was navigated through the white hallways.

_What could possibly be behind those doors? _John thought idly, and he put his trembling hands into his pockets and walked at least five steps behind the man. _What is this place, really? What do they want with me…I don't know. I don't care. I want my parents back. _

After what seemed like a decidedly short time, the man halted at one of the doors and pulled out some keys, which he fiddled with for a moment before knocking, unlocking the door, and then entering it.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, where are the rest of the boys?" the man said as he walked into the room, winking at John and motioning for him to enter after him.

"Probably dead," a calm, child-like voice said dryly. "They all snuck out a couple of minutes ago with the older one. Gavin or whatever. Did you know that Gavin has had four girlfriends before he came in here? Want to hear how I know? I can tell by the way he walks."

"That's nice Sherlock, but his name is _Greg. _Not Gavin."

"Hm. Whatever, I was close enough. Oh, but _you _have a girlfriend too? Date after work?"

John stepped into the room. It was moderately large, with several bunk beds lined up messily against the walls. Clothing, food, wrappers, and other personal items were strewn about on a gray carpeted floor.

It seemed to be vacated (but, vacated only recently, given the fact that everything seemed like it had been in the process of being used) save for one tall, thin boy (about John's age) positioned lightly against the wall on the bottom bunk of the bed. He was closest to the small, rectangular window letting in small ribbons of sunlight near the ceiling. His eyes were fixated on a large, thick textbook clamped in his hands that seemed far too advanced for him, and he seemed decidedly bored with it.

"Do you have a book on anything _but _the affects of…" the boy, Sherlock, trailed off as he glanced up towards the man, only to have his eyes instead drift toward John.

"Look, Sherlock, I brought you and the boys a new friend."

Immediately, John felt himself grow defensive. He did not like the way Sherlock was scrutinizing him, and before his eyes he felt naked and defenseless. His first interaction was Sherlock was a very uncomfortable experience.

Once Sherlock was done staring and assessing, he turned back to his book. "Hm. Did they die in the fire or were they shot first, and _then _set on fire? That part I'm not sure of. I don't want to have to guess and get it wrong."

"Wha…what?" John asked, eyes widening. "What are you…?"

Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes and snapped the book he held shut. "Your parents, of course, you should have understood the context," Sherlock said.

"...How did you know there was a fire?" John stuttered, feeling pain shoot through his chest. "Is that how you got here…?"

"Sherlock, be more sensitive," the man sighed. "It only happened a day ago—"

"No, two bullet holes directly in the chest with a handgun for my parents. Missed my brother though; they just took him away, I don't know where," Sherlock said. His voice held no trace of sadness or anger or any emotion that should be associated with such a tragedy. His voice was simply cold and calculating, as if he was reporting a minor thunderstorm that was to hit the area. "But, yours happened in a fire. I can see a small burn mark on your arm right there that looks very fresh, and—"

"Okay, okay," the man responded. He turned back to John, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about this. Sherlock comes off a bit…strong, I suppose. This place is where we keep our newly brought in recruits."

"Recruits?" John asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

The man looked a bit taken aback by his own words. "Well, I mean, you did say you wanted to fight for revenge, right?"

"…Yes?"

"So, you're going to join our agents fighting against them. We need to train you up first, but for now I need to get paperwork done for you and I need to know _officially _what to do with you. Can you understand that?"

John blinked. "Yes, but…?"

The man smiled. "Sherlock and the other boys will explain everything for you, okay?"

"But—"

With that, the man patted John's hair, and promptly left the room, leaving John standing stupidly in the middle of it.

"So, John," Sherlock said, staring at the boy with an interesting expression that could suggest that he was plotting his murder. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, I…" John sighed, and turned away from the door, towards the curly haired boy. "Yeah, I got that…"

"Hmm," Sherlock said after a moment of hesitation. Eventually, he tore his eyes away from John and pulled his heavy textbook back off the bed, pulling his knees towards his chest and opening it over them.

"Wait, how long have you been here?" John asked awkwardly, eyes darting around the room, taking in its unkempt manner.

"Two weeks, three days," Sherlock said in his quick, abrupt way of conversing.

John paused.

"Well, you seem…fine," John said uneasily.

"Yeah, why not?"

John's eyebrows furrowed. Why was this boy so jaded towards the situation? Was that how John himself should act? Is that what was to be expected?

"'Cos of your…your…" John struggled to say the word that became stuck in his throat.

"Parents?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow but not tearing his eyes away from the book.

"Well, yeah," John said, crossing his arms over his body in a gesture that appeared like it was executed more to comfort himself than to express defiance.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Sherlock asked in his slightly high pitched, boyish voice. "Cry in bed by myself and eat ice cream? I've got over it."

"You've got over it in…in two weeks?"

"And three days," Sherlock said. "Don't forget the three days, don't be so dumb."

A flash of anger darted through John. "I don't care about the 'three days;' all I care about is how you've done it."

"It wasn't even hard," Sherlock responded. He still did not look from his textbook.

"Yeah, well, you're a liar," John said, fists clenching as his arms fell to his side.

"Don't make deductions 'till you have all the evidence," Sherlock replied.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I thought you'd be smarter than to not know what that means, John," Sherlock replied, lips twisting into a smug smirk that stung John more than if he had stabbed him with a needle.

"Shut up," John snapped. He walked several steps forward, anxiously glaring at the bunk beds, searching for a vacant one. How did he land himself in his mess? First, the tragedies had happened, then he was taken away to some uncannily secluded location where he felt fear pound through him constantly without him realizing it, and on top of that, he had to share his room with a smug bastard.

"Well, where am I going to sleep?" John asked, as if he had expected Sherlock to divulge this information to him without him having to ask.

Only then did Sherlock finally look up from his dull work of literature. His bright eyes quickly flashed across the small enclosure. After a few seconds of this, they darted back to John's.

Sherlock pointed to the bunk above him.

"That's the only one left." He smirked once again. "Looks like you're going to be part of my club house. Welcome to your new home, John."

_Now_

"Oh, Sherlock, you're up already?"

Three days had passed since Molly had last been able to visit Sherlock, and on the very day that she had returned, it appeared as if he was almost completely healthy. She would have believed it if he told her he was, except for the several cuts and bruises, fact that a white cast in a sling was hugging his arm, and that the bandage had still not been removed from his face.

"Being almost dead has lost its touch of excitement," Sherlock said in a bored voice, eyes scanning a large book he had been given as he sat, mostly upright, in the hospital bed. His head fell back against the wall in exasperation. "God, what wouldn't I do for a more interesting read? Or a cigarette?"

"Well," Molly said, in a voice that could be easily interpreted as meek, "that's not allowed, you know? And besides, they wanted you to rest up and not do any work while you're still healing."

"Yes, but this arm will take long enough to heal as is, and you cannot expect me to sit here reading _children's books _while I have a plethora of other books far more worth my time while I heal. The minute I'm strong enough to get out of this place and go to my workplace this is what I'll be doing."

"Yes, well, you're not now, though," Molly said in a slightly sterner voice. "So get used to it, alright? 'Cos that's what you're going to be doing for a while. Sitting here and reading children's books."

Sherlock looked up at her, expression clearly conveying his aggravation.

"So, what happened back there?" Molly asked, glancing around for a chair, finding one, and sliding it to Sherlock's bedside.

Sherlock shook his head, lips twisting sourly. "There was a surprise attack ready for us as we approached checkpoint, and judging by the fact that it was so very near checkpoint I highly doubt the idea was to kill us. In fact, they need to keep us alive, and only to scare us into…submission perhaps." Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he attempted to call forth the memories that had buried themselves deeply into his subconscious from his bout of unconsciousness. "I'd say it would have to have been someone from the inside, a traitor, because no one else knows the location of that checkpoint, and the girl and I that brought John here made sure that they wouldn't know once we evaded them. Mycroft sent out a false signal that made them leave us and head towards that instead; he told me about it just a few moments ago. But, that's standard procedure. You should know."

Molly paused as she registered this new information. "So, you didn't hit a tree, then?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "Okay, _yes, _we did hit a tree, but only to try and swerve away from the bomb."

Molly pressed her lips together. Sherlock's tone of complete dissatisfaction and the slight note of embarrassment buried within it was enough to bring a smile to her lips. _God, I'm so glad he's okay,_ Molly thought, relief suddenly spilling through her at the mention of this development. _I was so worried…well, I mean…no, it's just that…Oh, I knew he would be okay, because he always is, but even so…_

And then, the cruel, crushing reality of the situation severed her from her small moment of giddy happiness. A traitor. There was a traitor among them.

And she thought she knew exactly who it was.

"Um, Sherlock?" Molly said uneasily, biting her lip.

"Yes, I know about the woman."

"You…what?"

"The woman. You know, _the woman._ I know that she had a hand in it already, don't bother to mention it Molly," Sherlock said, absently tapping a long, pale finger against the novel's cover.

"Oh…you mean Irene? You…"

"Yes, of _course _she had a hand in it. I knew it already. She came by to see me a few days ago. She told me that she did, when she came in here before you did, today," Sherlock said.

Well, Molly could not say that she was surprised that Sherlock had found out already. "Well, alright then," Molly said cautiously. "So…you think she's the traitor?"

"I don't have enough evidence to solidify that point, Molly," Sherlock said reluctantly. "But, I'm going to investigate as soon as I can."

"Yeah, alright, that's good," Molly said awkwardly. She nodded slowly, assessing this information. If Irene was, indeed, the traitor who had…who had… (done what, exactly? Blew up the van for no reason?), then many problems would arise. One of these problems would be how exactly they would convince the people in charge. Irene was one of the most highly respected individuals in the A.A. Molly, on the other hand, certainly was not, and while Sherlock was respected, he was too resented for that reverence to count for anything.

And then, something caught her eyes. Well, an _absence _of something caught her eye.

"Say, where'd John go off to?" Molly asked, focusing her attention on the impeccably white, and empty, bed beside Sherlock.

Molly then noticed a subtle shift in the outline of Sherlock's eyes and mouth. He turned away slightly before responding. "He woke up and they took him away."

"Wait, why'd they do that? I'd think that they'd leave him here too…?"

"Well, they couldn't since he instantly tried to attack me and consequently the nurses that tried to restrain him before security carted him away," Sherlock said, clear bitterness evident in his voice.

Molly did not respond. She averted her gaze and ran a hand uncomfortably through her messy hair. What was she supposed to say to that? What could she do? She did not personally know John, but she knew first hand what Sherlock felt about him. Did Sherlock want pity from her? No, no he did not; of course not. Whenever she offered it, he would respond with an offensive comment about the size of her lips of hair and walk away. Pity was not what he wanted.

"They must have done their thing on him," Molly said. "The mind thing."

"I didn't want to have to think of the possibility," Sherlock sighed. "But, yes, that appears to be what happened. They replaced his memory with something else entirely, and now, in his eyes, we are the enemy."

_Poor Sherlock…_

"D'you think we can reverse its affects?" Molly asked.

"Well, he still recognized me, so that might not be necessary," Sherlock said. "If we can convince him to accept the truth, maybe we have a chance to bring him back to reality."

"And what if we can't? What happens then?"

"It won't happen. We'll manage to go through with him. John will still have those memories, most likely. People like him are more resistant to its permanent affects."

"Yes, Sherlock, but what if we can't? What if it progresses? What if its one of those…well, those progressively decaying memory ones?"

Sherlock looked up at Molly. She could not read his expression. "Then, we will proceed directly with phase two." Even so, Molly knew exactly what lay beneath the mask of apathy.

Molly closed her eyes.

_Poor Sherlock…_ she thought.

**End of Chapter 5**

* * *

**Authors Note 2: **Oh, by the way, why don't you guys help me out with naming and giving life to the filler OCs in the story? Like that nameless woman with Sherlock when they found John and this faceless guy that took little John to the I.O.U Agency? Just thought that might be some fun, even they're not important and I just needed them to fill the roles. Anyway, thank you so much for reading enough of this story to be able to see this comment, and I hope you enjoyed it!


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